Twice In a Lifetime

Some people dream of travelling the world.  I've been blessed to do it twice.   Both trips were unique.  The first one molded a young small town girl into an independent woman.  The second was a whirlwind tour which tugged at both my desires to experience every moment in casual calm and to drink in every drop of an opportunity I knew may never come again.  After all, twice in a lifetime is more than most of us get....

I remember the moment the airplane took off on my first trans-atlantic flight.   I was 21, a college junior, embarking on a semester abroad in London.  I left both my parents and my boyfriend  at the gate.  In a way, I left my childhood behind right there in the terminal. During my three month absence my commitment to Kevin was solidified in writing, and my official break from my parents and childhood occurred upon my return to his home, not theirs. 

That first time I landed in London on a cool, damp morning.  I was immediately in love.  The sights and smells of the beautiful, friendly city were unlike anything I had experienced before.  I soon learned to navigate the 'tube' system, and this afforded me a freedom I'd never had.  I could leave my house in the morning with no clear direction in mind, walk to the station, and wander the entire city.   The tube map would always lead me back.  Far away from all I'd grown up with, from anything that would remind me of my past, from commitments or deadlines or expectations, I became aware of myself.  To this day, the smell of deisel fuel  on a rainy street takes me back to the miles I walked in London, weilding a camera, at home in a huge city that felt like an old friend.  I travelled the countryside during this trip, as part of my student program--Bath, Oxford, Brighton, Stratford-upon-Avon.  I spent a weekend in Scotland, and one in Paris, where I was the most reckless I've ever been...and the most enchanted.  I came home knowing I must somehow, someday return.

Last September, I returned to London on a balmy morning, and was almost immediately assaulted with the familiar smell of the air and sounds of bustling traffic.  I remember thinking that I could not believe I had returned, and marvelling at how it still  felt like home. All the old familiar moments-walking the streets with camera in hand, navigating the tube, revisiting the house I had lived in twenty years ago, slipping into as many comforting, warm pubs as possible-were made even more poignant because that boyfriend I had left behind was now at my side.  In the interim years we'd married, had three children, moved three times, built a business and a house, and weathered nineteen years of marriage and all that entails.  Returning together to the place where I had once been completely independent was full of contradictions. I wanted so much to just be in the moment, to not overplan the two days we had there before taking off to pack  half of Europe into a two week trip. But I also wanted to see it all again, to relive every wonderful moment I had spent alone with my husband now by my side; knowing at the same time this was impossible. I try not to torture myself with 'should haves,' knowing we may never have a third chance.  Still, there are a few things...I wish we'd taken a guided walk... I wish we'd seen 'Wicked'.... I wish we'd had time and a sunny afternoon to visit Kew Gardens...I wish I'd have bought the 'Keep Calm and Carry On' coffee mug which beckoned  me in a shop window...

We left London on the Eurostar train and arrived in Paris three hours later (amazing!!).  Immediately it was clear this would be a different trip.  The first time I was a poor college student, dependent on public transportation and cheap lodging.  We arrived late in the evening after 8 hours of travel by hovercraft and bus, and trudged up a steep cobblestoned street in the highest point of the city.  At one point, of course, we stopped on the sidewalk, sat on our luggage, and opened a bottle of cheap wine to toast our arrival in the city of lights.  This time around, we hailed a cab, were deposited at our darling boutique hotel within sight of Notre Dame, and were soon seated in the afternoon sun at the first of many outdoor cafe tables with a carafe of house red.  Again, I was determined to soak in the experience, avoid the tourist traps, and live in the moment.  We did.  Our first destination was Le Sacre Couer, a white marble cathedral and artsy hot spot on a hill above Paris.  We departed the Metro and walked uphill on cobbled streets I remembered toward the cathedral, which appeared like a vision, set against the perfect azure sky and framed by puffy clouds; imposing yet elegant, playful yet serene.  This had been my favorite spot in Paris on the trip years before.  Rarely in life does a moment revisited completely surpass the memory one holds so dear...this did.  We made our way to an empty spot on the stairs which led up to the cathedral, within veiw of both an acoustic troubador singing favorites and an amazingly agile athlete tossing a soccer ball skyward with his feet while hanging on to a lampost high above the city below.  We purchased cold Heinekens from an enterprising hawker and settled in for a perfect afternoon, buffeted by warm breezes and gentle memories.  Later, we walked among the gift shops and cafes, choosing the perfect momentos, and then wound our way back toward the city.  With a nod to the tourists that we were, we visited the Louvre and the Eiffel Tower during our brief stay, as well as a famous flea market and several streetside cafes, but I will most remember those hours on the steps of the cathedral. 

We left Paris on a night train bound for Italy after one last beer overlooking the River Seine, and woke to find ourselves in wonderland......Florence.  If London and Paris were old friends, Florence burst on us like a new romance.  From the rooftop terrace of our hotel, we gazed past the Duomo of the city's famous cathedral  to the Tuscan hills beyond.  It was truly breathtaking. Beheld in the early morning sunshine, this view alone promised a memorable stay.  Again, we walked miles on cobblestone streets, snapped pictures of views that literally brought me to tears, enjoyed wine, warm breezes, and freedom.  We promised ourselves we'd return, but all too soon had to move on, this time to Aviano to stay with my youngest brother and his wife, and from there to spend one enchanting day in Venice.

The last leg of our trip was on the train from Venice to Munich, Germany.  The four hour trip to Innsbruck, Austria, was spent in first class luxury, with a picnic of bread, cheeses, fruit, cookies, and wine spread between us.  When not awestruck by the passing vistas--from northern Italian vineyards to the Alps-- we talked and drank, and thoroughly 'enjoyed the ride.'   We arrived in Innsbruck at dusk, and again I felt transported to another world.  From the lightness of Italy, with sunshine and summerlike temperatures, we arrived amid a  cool fog in a Bavarian landscape.  We did not see much of this picturesque town, but we enjoyed our evening visit.  A sunset drink under yet another cafe umbrella led to a wonderful dinner inside, and then after dinner drinks at a latin tapas bar (a delightful surpirse!).   Our long day of travelling, drinking, and eating did catch up with us at last and we fell into bed, spent and happy,  much later than we should have.  An early morning train took us on to Munich, our final stop.

Now we were visiting Kevin's memories, as he had spent two years stationed in Germany during his time in the Army.  He had told me it looked like Ohio...and I agreed.  Indeed, it felt like home.  Munich itself was somewhat imposing; a busy, working city, in contrast to the slow pace of Florence and Venice.  But as we walked the streets, I was amazed to see so many familiar looking faces, and it was clear I had returned to my roots. We donned jackets and gloves against the cool autumn air as we explored the city, then made or way to the meeting place we had arranged with a very special friend.  An exchange student with our family while I was in high school, Anu had remained a steadfast penpal and friend as we both grew into the women we are today.  We'd last seen each other at my wedding nineteen years before, but the years melted away when we met again in a warm German beer hall.  Again, we spent our days walking, sipping, soaking in the moments we knew may never come again.  We joined revellers on the streets at the Oktoberfest parade, close enough to touch the imposingly beautiful Clydesdales proudly pulling the brewery wagons into the historic fairgrounds for yet another three week party.  In the spirit of the celebration we were in the midst of, we did in fact spend the day drinking large glasses of excellent german beer.... and returned via a late flight to my brother's London apartment still a bit tipsy and with the weight of our early morning departure weighing heavily on  our hearts. 

So we opened yet another bottle of wine, curled onto the couch and relived the special moments of our trip.  The moment was bittersweet.  Our 'wine and pictures' tour of Europe had come to an end.  Though we looked forward to returning to our three precious kids, we knew it could be years before we enjoyed such a perfect trip again.  So we drank, and talked, and smiled, until at last we had to give in to the reality that our plane would be leaving in hours and we had not yet finished packing.  I left with tears in my eyes, and a tiny little piece of my heart dared to hope that three times in a lifetime is not too much to ask....

Why write????

So, why do I write?  Because words intrigue me.  Because it has always been a form of expression when my voice failed me.  Because I can't always say what I feel without emotions getting in the way..... but Oh, can I write a letter!  When I was young I kept journals, now both humorous and slightly sad to me, as they recorded my extreme lack of self-confidence apart from whatever current boy was interested in me.  Page after page of teenage angst, always wrapped around certain male attention, or lack thereof.... I wrote a few 'dear John' letters, masterpieces I imagine, though I am sorry for the adolescent hearts they may have broken.  I've written love letters also, to boyfriends, my husband, and my precious kids.  I wrote a letter to my Grampa a few years ago.  He beamed when he told me he kept it in a box of his 'precious letters.'  I felt completely fulfilled. 

I'll admit to being a literature snob.... I am insulted by novels that do not challenge me; roll my eyes at cliches and love stories written at a level I consider below me. If I can predict the ending, I see no reason to waste my time getting there..... Words are a gift, language a trust, we should use them skillfully.

So there it is. I write because words have an impact. They are powerful. They can be a weapon or a gift. Perhaps at their best they are a mirror.  The best authors validate our feelings; they give us permission to laugh out loud, or cry in our pillows for reasons we may have until that very moment been unaware of.  Success for me is knowing I have, at least once, accomplished that small goal.  In the meantime I will write, selfishly, because it is my passion -- like an artist with a brush, or a potter with clay, words are my medium.  I hope you enjoy the results.